What have you done?
by EchoDeltaNine
Summary: What has Daisy done, allowing Gatsby to tell Tom of their affair?  The Plaza scene from Daisy's POV


****

**I had to write this for an English Project. The challenge was to write a scene from a different character's point of view, so I picked the Plaza scene from Daisys POV. Tell me what you think? Is it acceptable from a regular fanfiction writer?**

**Steph**

* * *

I stared at myself in the mirror, fluffing my hair, attempting to give it volume that the heat refused to allow. My blue eyes were bright and caught the afternoon sunshine, giving them a pretty glint that I hadn't seen in myself in years. But the heat was ruining my mood and my complexion. Sweat pooled at my temples and threatened to leave streaks down my face.

"Open another window," I command, swiping my fingers under my eyes, clearing away the imaginary smudges of lavender eye shadow.

"There aren't any more," Jordan says in her way, confident and condescending, though I had learned to stop taking offense to her long ago.

"Well, we better telephone for an axe—" I begin, laughing slightly at the thought of ruining the beautiful suite. Although, with the way that the air clung to my body made me think that perhaps it would be worth it.

"The thing to do is to forget about the heat," Tom cut me off impatiently. "You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it." I nearly saw red at his words. Tom treated me like I was a nobody, like I was just a bother—a lowly cat that he had mistakenly fed and that kept coming back unwanted. As if I was not his wife.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm myself. I heard the click of the whisky bottle on the table, and opened my eyes again. I concentrated on getting through this excursion. Even with my back to the room, the tension was almost tangible.

"Why not let her alone, old sport? You're the one that wanted to come to town." My body shivered at his voice. In the mirror, I studied my Gatsby. His body was bathed half in shadow, but his piercing blue eyes were locked on Tom, a dangerous expression on his face.

It took several seconds for me to realize how quiet it had gotten, until the phonebook fell to the floor, making me jump. Jordan and Nick both reached for it, but Gatsby was closest, and he said, "I've got it."

"That's a great expression of yours, isn't it?" Tom demands sharply. I believed that he suspected of the affair. I hadn't done much to hide it, though Tom was always away at work, or out for drinks, so there was not much to hide from him. His dislike of Gatsby was overly apparent, and I feared the confrontation that was likely to happen.

"What is?" Gatsby. So innocent and so sweet. But he knew. He knew what Tom was talking about. He was only faking innocence today. He refused to give Tom the satisfaction of having something over him.

"All this 'old sport' business. Where'd you pick that up?" Tom's question dripped with mockery.

"Now see here, Tom!" I couldn't help breaking in. I found a need to defend my Gatsby. He was the most amazing thing in my life—he gave me a reason to be happy again. He gave me a reason to live. So I continued my speech to Tom, turning to him and glaring in his direction. "If you're going to make personal remarks I won't stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep." Tom's responding look of hatred made my blood run cold, but he rose to his feet and went to the phone without another word.

Gatsby tried to catch my eye, but I persisted to stare out the window that overlooked the Plaza's chapel. At that moment, Mendelssohn's Wedding March reached us through the heavy air. It was a beautiful representation of the piece, though rather traditional, at the same time. Hearing the tune brought back memories of my own wedding.

"Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!" Jordan cried incredulously, dramatically drawing a hand across her forehead. _Yes, indeed_, I thought to myself. _Who would marry anyone in heat such as this?_

"Still—I was married in the middle of June," I replied thoughtfully, remembering the day.

It had been June 17th, and had dawned bright, but so humid that it took a massive amount of energy to just lift your hands. I remembered my mother rushing around, like a chicken with her head cut off. She had driven me to the hair salon, telling everyone what to do, which parts should be curled, which left straight. My hair had been longer then, not the short bob I had adopted as of late.

We drove straight to the church after our hair was done. Mother brushed blush over my cheeks, lined my eyes in a charcoal gray, and painted my lips a vibrant red. I had looked just like my mother, something I had always tried to achieve.

As Mother laced up my dress, a beautiful piece of satin and lace, she had told me that she had never been more proud of me. We had stood together, in front of a floor length mirror, and I could see myself being just like her. We had stared at each other for a long time, and then she hugged me.

"You've never been more beautiful, my Daisy," she said, holding my face in her hands. "That Tom is a lucky man." She smiled wide for me, kissed me on the cheek, and left me for her place in the church.

Daddy came to collect me several minutes later.

"Are you ready, sweetheart?" He asked, looping his arm through mine. Daddy was a tall man, robust and proud. He had _hated_ Tom. Absolutely loathed him. But he always wanted to please his little girl.

"No," I replied breathlessly. "I'm scared, Daddy." His soft smile made me feel better.

"You've made a good choice, Daisy. You'll be happy. Don't get cold feet now." He bent and kissed my cheek as the wedding march began.

I leaned heavily on Daddy as we walked steadily down the aisle. Tom looked handsome as ever at the altar. He had stubbornly insisted on the black tuxedo, though I had tried to convince him to just wear his suit. He looked crisp and my heart squeezed tightly and then swelled with love. I knew at that moment that I would forever be happy.

Daddy exchanged my hands with Tom, and we stood looking at each other. Well, _staring_ would be a better term. His bright eyes radiated love, and his hands were strong and comforting.

I don't remember much of the ceremony, only the minister announcing us man and wife and Tom sweeping me into his arms for a kiss. When he pulled away, both of us breathless, to the applause of our friends and family, I was the happiest I have ever been. Tom squeezed my hand and we left the church together.

I remember, as we passed the third pew, someone collapsed. The hall erupted in panic and Tom and I were yanked apart as everyone clustered around the collapsed man. An ambulance was called and Tom and I weren't reunited again until the reception.

The memory of the panic made me laugh, and I scoured my brain to remember the name of the man who fainted at my wedding.

"Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?"

"Biloxi," Tom said flatly.

"A man named Biloxi. 'Blocks' Biloxi, and he made boxes—that's a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Mississippi."

"They carried him into my house," Jordan interjected. I remembered that, also. It was the reason, perhaps, that Jordan and I became such good friends.

At the window, the music had stopped and the ceremonies began, and then it started again, a fast-paced jazz number. I put my palm on the window, staring out at a scene that once had been. Once, when Tom and I were dating, we had escaped to a hotel like the Plaza. There had been a wedding that day, too. And he had taken me in his arms and twirled me about the room. We were younger then.

"We're getting old," I finally said, the memory fading away instead to a crowd of people dancing about the lawn. "If we were young we'd rise and dance."

Jordan said something to Tom, about knowing Biloxi, and Tom denied it. Biloxi had been a stranger to us both, though Tom supposed he was a friend of mine.

"He was not. I'd never seen him before. He came down in the private car," I said with conviction, turning back to face the room. Tom lounged in a chair upholstered in green silk. My Gatsby sat in another chair. Jordan and Nick sat too close together on the cream couch.

"Well," Tom said, looking at me, "he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him."

"He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale." Jordan's words make Tom start.

"Bil_oxi_?" Nick said in disbelief.

"First place, we didn't have any president—" Tom said, suddenly glaring at Gatsby, as if remember some point of an argument that he needed to say.

"By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you're an Oxford man." _Oh, Tom_, I think. _Don't start in on him again._

"Not exactly," Gatsby replies pleasantly.

"Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford."

"Yes—I went there."

Tom nodded thoughtfully, then sneered at Gatsby, "You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven." I widened my eyes at Tom, pleading for him to stop, but he didn't look at me.

Thankfully we were spared as a knock on the door sounded the arrival of our mint and ice. The boy was sweet and quiet. He came and went quickly with a soft "thank you," but he reminded me so much of a younger Gatsby that I nearly called out to a boy I used to know. The tension was thick in the air again.

"I told you I went there," Gatsby said shortly.

"I heard you, but I'd like to know when." Tom just wouldn't let it go. He was hell bent on proving that he, Tom Buchanan, was better than Jay Gatsby.

"It was in nineteen-nineteen. I only stayed five months. That's why I can't really call myself an Oxford man." Tom didn't believe him; his expression was critical as he looked from Nick, to me, to Jordan, and then back to Gatsby. "It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the Armistice. We could go to any of the universities in England or France."

I smiled. That was my Gatsby. No, he didn't finish an education at Oxford, but he went there. I went to the table, wanting my mint julep, and wanting to keep Tom from drilling Gatsby.

"Open the whisky, Tom, and I'll make you a mint julep. Then you won't seem so stupid to yourself….Look at the mint!"

"Wait a moment," he snapped at me, grabbing the bottle and clutching it to his chest. "I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question." I didn't like the look in his eyes, but I stepped slowly away from the table anyway.

"Go on," Gatsby replied, or rather, he insisted. It was like a challenge, in a way.

"What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house?"

My heart sank. No. No, no, no, no, no! This wasn't how I had wanted to make this happen. Tom wasn't supposed to know anything.

"He isn't causing a row! You're causing a row. Please have a little self control." I was determinedly desperate to end the conversation right at that moment.

"Self-control! I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that's the idea you can count me out….Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they'll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white families."

"We're all white here," Jordan murmured, perhaps unnecessarily.

"I know I'm not very popular. I don't give big parties. I suppose you've got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world." Tom just couldn't let it go. He had angered Nick, who was grinding his teeth together. Jordan sat rather uninterested, staring at the wall over Gatsby's head, trying to be as small as possible. And, he had angered me. There was no need for this to continue, and yet he persisted.

"I've got something to tell you, old sport—" Apparently he had angered my Gatsby, too. At his words, I began to panic. No, he couldn't tell Tom of our affair. He would find out, yes, but it was supposed to happen after we'd left together. Tom was supposed to remain none the wiser until he woke up alone.

"Please don't!" I cried, looking urgently at Gatsby. _Please, can't you see I can't do it this way?_ "Please let's all go home. Why don't we all go home?"

"That's a good idea. Come on, Tom. Nobody wants a drink." Thank God for Nick. He came swiftly to my rescue, always the good Samaritan.

"I want to know what Mr. Gatsby has to tell me," Tom insisted.

"Your wife doesn't love you," Gatsby says calmly. "She's never loved you. She loves me." Of course, the cat was out of the bag, now. I closed my eyes, trying to take myself away from the scene, but Tom's responding exclamation reminded me that I could never do that.

"She never loved you, do you hear?" _Oh, can't you just let it go, Jay? Can't you just leave it be and let us leave together and never look back? Can't that be enough?_ "She only married you because I was poor and she was tired of waiting for me. It was a terrible mistake, but in her heart she never loved any one except me!"

"Sit down, Daisy," Tom ordered, straining to be polite, and failing miserably. "What's been going on? I want to hear all about it.

"I told you what's been going on. Going on for five years—and you didn't know." Even _I_ didn't know what he was talking about. Tom turned quickly to me, scouring me with his accusing eyes.

"You've been seeing this fellow for five years?"

"Not seeing. No, we couldn't meet. But both of us loved each other all that time, old sport, and you didn't know. I used to laugh sometimes to think that you didn't know."

"Oh—that's all," Tom replied quietly…a little too quietly. I saw it just before it happened, like the calm before the storm. Or like the silence of a forest before the appearance of the top predator. Or like the calm of a small room before the explosion.

"You're crazy! I can't speak about what happened five years ago because I didn't know Daisy then—and I'll be damned if I see how you got within a mile of her unless you brought the groceries to the back door. But all the rest of that's a God damned lie. Daisy loved me when she married me and she loves me now."

"No," Gatsby shook his head, denying what Tom believed to be true—and maybe even denying it to himself.

"She does, though. The trouble is that sometimes she gets foolish ideas in her head and doesn't know what she's doing. And what's more I love Daisy too. Once in a while I go off on a spree and make a fool of myself, but I always come back, and in my heart I love her all the time." I nearly laughed. The man lied to me every day, and he expected me to believe all of that?

"You're revolting," I spit at him, turning to Nick. He would understand. "Do you know why we left Chicago? I'm surprised that they didn't treat you to the story of that little spree." Nick looked at a loss, but Gatsby came and stood beside me, resting a soft hand on my shoulder.

"Daisy, that's all over now. It doesn't matter any more. Just tell him the truth—that you never loved him—and it's all wiped out forever."

But how could I say it? How I could I truly say that? It was a lie, if I did. Gatsby deserved better, and I refused to stoop down to Tom's level. So, I pose the question, hoping to bypass Gatsby's.

"Why—how could I love him—possibly?"

"You never loved him." Maybe I hadn't loved Tom. Looking at Gatsby, my heart swelling, told me where my heart lay now. But looking at Tom, I remembered loving him, as well. We had a life together, had a little girl who was the center of my world. I had loved Gatsby first, but had I really loved Tom? Or had I just settled?

"I never loved him," I said tentatively, still not sure of my decision, reluctant to answer for fear of harming both of them.

"Not at Kapiolani?" Tom demanded. I looked to him, catching the hurt in his eyes, but also seeing how they hardened into steel.

"No," I answered shortly.

"Not that day I carried you down from the Punch Bowl to keep your shoes dry? Daisy?" His voice was tender and sweet, the tone that had lured me into his heart. I steeled my heart for the reply. I _had_ loved him that day. Our little daughter had been conceived that night.

"Please don't." I was tired and hated being torn apart by the men of my life. "There, Jay," I told Gatsby. His eyes were bright with anticipation and my chest constricted with hidden tears. I tried to light a cigarette, hoping that it would calm me, but my hands shook too much. Finally my anger burst from me.

"Oh, you want too much! I love you now—isn't that enough? I can't help what's past. I did love him once—but I loved you too." The tears leaked from my eyes, and I ended on a sob, sitting forward to break the contact from his hand.

"You loved me _too_?"

"Even that's a lie," Tom broke in savagely. "She didn't know you were alive. Why—there're things between Daisy and me that you'll never know, things that neither of us can ever forget." Tom was right. There would be so much that Gatsby and I couldn't have; but there would be so much that Gatsby and I had had that I couldn't ever have with Tom.

"I want to speak to Daisy alone. She's all excited now." _Oh, Jay, why can't you just see?_

"Even alone I can't say I never loved Tom." As soon as the words left my mouth I knew that they were true. Gatsby had put a doubt in my heart, but I had loved Tom, once upon a time. "It wouldn't be true."

"Of course it wouldn't," Tom agreed loudly. I was angered by his comment. Tom Buchanan had been my idol, my husband, and my lover. And he had been my demise. He thought that I didn't know about his mistress—as if I couldn't smell her perfume on his skin when he came home late; as if I didn't know how late he came home; as if I didn't notice the way he never touched me in front of the Wilsons, and he never kissed me any more.

"As if it mattered to you," I snap at him. How could it matter to him, with him flouncing around with some tramp all the time?

"Of course it matters. I'm going to take better care of you from now on." For a moment I believed that Tom would change the day Hell froze over, but the expression in his eyes put the seed of uncertainty in my mind.

"You don't understand. You're not going to take care of her any more," Gatsby answered for me.

"I'm not?" Tom laughed skeptically. "Why's that?"

"Daisy's leaving you." I closed my eyes tightly.

"Nonsense." It was now or never, right? I had to make a choice. Tom, who lied to me, or Gatsby, who lied for me?

"I am, though," I finally manage. It took everything I had to say it. It seemed my heart refused to allow me to choose.

"She's not leaving me!" Tom's outburst sent me to crying again. "Certainly not for a common swindler who'd have to steal the ring he put on her finger."

I could see the tightening of Tom's muscles in his neck and I felt the balling of Gatsby's fists. It was going to come to blows soon, and I just wanted to go home.

"I won't stand this," I finally yell, trying to wipe my face of snot and tears. "Oh, please, let's get out."

"Who are you anyhow? You're one of that bunch that hangs around with Meyer Wolfsheim—that much I happen to know. I've made a little investigation into your affairs—and I'll carry it further tomorrow." Gatsby made an offhand comment about Tom doing what he liked, and Tom continued his ranting. "I found out what your 'drug-stores' were. He and this Wolfsheim bought up a lot of side-street drug-stores here and in Chicago and sold grain alcohol over the counter. That's one of his little stunts. I picked him for a bootlegger the first time I saw him, and I wasn't far wrong."

"What about it? I guess your friend Walter Chase wasn't too proud to come in on it," Gatsby said nonchalantly.

"And you left him in the lurch, didn't you? You let him go to jail for a month over in New Jersey. God! You ought to hear Walter on the subject of _you_."

"He came to us dead broke. He was very glad to pick up some money, old sport."

"Don't you call me 'old sport'! Walter could have you up on the betting laws too, but Wolfsheim scared him into shutting his mouth.

"That drug-store business was just small change, but you've got something on now that Walter's afraid to tell me about."

What were they talking about? I couldn't quite grasp the meaning, but I didn't like anything that I heard. My Gatsby was into some trouble? How could that possibly happen? He was so sweet and well rounded and level headed. And, Tom had every right to lie about everything to do with Gatsby, only, his motivation was to make me hate Gatsby, and I did not believe that he was lying.

"Don't believe him, Daisy." Gatsby stared at me, his expression loving, his voice desperate. "I haven't done anything at all! I just own some drug stores, no harm in that! I mean, I don't go to the borders and take orders or anything; I don't go to the betting stages. I swear I don't."

With every word that he said, I shrunk more into myself. Of course Jay Gatsby was involved in something bad. How else did he make his fortune? The Jay Gatsby I had known all those years ago was a poor boy in the army. And, he didn't have a job now. It all started making sense. But I tried not to care. I didn't want to care. I just wanted the argument to be over.

"_Please_, Tom! I can't stand this any more." All my courage had fled from me. I had no conviction, and I had half a mind to just leave the room and let them have it out.

"You two start on home, Daisy, in Mr. Gatsby's car," Tom said through gritted teeth. I glanced at him in alarm, terrified of his change in attitude. "Go on. He won't annoy you. I think he realizes that his presumptuous little flirtation is over." I thought that maybe he was wrong, but I didn't let on as I walked swiftly out the door. Gatsby followed closely behind, capturing my hand in his as we entered the elevator.

"Oh, please don't, Jay," I told him, pulling my hand to myself. "You know that isn't how I wanted to tell him. Did you have to do it that way?" His eyes filled with shame and he looked away from me.

"I'm sorry. I just, didn't want to play this any longer, and he was angering me."

"You didn't have to be angered. Now this will never work as I had wished." He turned to me and took my hands. This time, I didn't pull away. To be honest, I needed to be close to him.

"I'm sorry. I promise you won't ever have to deal with me and Tom together ever again. Please, Daisy. I'm sorry." I sighed softly as he traced my face with his soft fingers, then leaned his lips against mine. How could I hold a grudge after that? How could I ever be angry with my Gatsby?

"Fine." His smile was positively blinding as he led me across the lobby to the parking lot. At his handsome yellow car he turned to me.

"Would you like to drive?" I grinned widely at him. Tom never allowed me to drive his precious little car.

"I'd love to!" I cried, jumping behind the wheel and turning the mirrors to compensate for my height difference. Gatsby laughed and turned the key in the ignition.

"Now, take it easy, okay? Nice and slow at first. Watch the speedometer." I only barely heard him as I pressed on the gas.

It was blissful to drive, the wind flowing through my hair. Gatsby and I shared a life full of laughter as I drove, though we both failed to realize how fast I was going. Our failure had disastrous consequences. As we passed that old gas station, Mr. Wilson's wife ran straight out in the road. When I looked away from Gatsby's face, I just caught the look of horror in her eyes before she disappeared under the vehicle.

I let out a delayed scream several minutes later, but Gatsby yelled at me to not stop.

"Keep going, Daisy. Don't stop. Daisy, keep your eyes on the road!" Tears streamed down my face and my heart beat rapidly in my chest, the combination making it hard to breathe. Gatsby kept running his fingers through his hair, muttering to himself. Finally, he scrubbed his face and whispered the same thing I was thinking.

"What have you done?"


End file.
